


Doctor's Orders

by delgaserasca



Series: Trek Bingo 2020 [5]
Category: Star Trek: Discovery, Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-31
Updated: 2020-08-31
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:14:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26211748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/delgaserasca/pseuds/delgaserasca
Summary: As in all things, Una brings her own particular spin to the concept of 'bedside manner'.
Relationships: Number One/Christopher Pike
Series: Trek Bingo 2020 [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1903600
Comments: 6
Kudos: 29
Collections: Star Trek Bingo Summer 2020





	Doctor's Orders

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Trek Bingo 2020; prompt _Injury / Recovery_. Thanks to **[Door](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Door)** for the beta!

It’s not often that Phillip Boyce is chased out of his own sickbay, but tonight he’s more than willing to cede the ground.

He sits in his office, one eye on his reports, one firmly on the scene unfolding just beyond his door. Lights are down to forty per cent, but he can see clearly enough - Number One has the Captain seated directly beneath the beam. As in all things, Una brings her own particular spin to the concept of _bedside manner_. He wouldn’t want to be in Chris’ shoes right now for love nor money.

She’s efficient, he’ll give her that. She treats each wound in turn, washing, disinfecting, then bandaging. The wounds are superficial enough that Boyce would normally use the dermal regen, but they’re also lined with some sort of toxin that requires a more manual approach, and Una had all but volunteered for the privilege of seeing to their Captain’s injuries. It’s not as altruistic as it sounds.

Wipe, swipe, slap. Wipe, swipe, slap. 

She’s wearing gloves; she hasn’t spoken in fifteen minutes. She could, Boyce knows, go for longer. The longest was four days after some failed mission where Chris had ended up unconscious for a week. Once he was back on duty it was four days - four days! - of yes sir, no sir, and status reports, despite their captain’s attempts to cajole a laugh or a smile. Hell, even her vocal ire would have been better for him. Boyce is sure Number One would have kept it up for longer had Chris not grovelled. Which he had. Extensively.

Wipe, swipe, slap. 

Chris winces.

“Una, come on,” he wheedles, voice low despite Sickbay being otherwise empty. “I didn’t do it on purpose.”

Wipe, swipe, slap.

“You can’t be mad at me forever.”

Boyce watches as Una levels a look that could topple governments. It couldn’t say ’watch me’ any clearer than if she’d bellowed it on shipwide comms.

Later Chris will have to charm her into begrudging softness, but it had been a closer thing than the evidence suggests; he could have had the phaser go off in his chest again, and then he wouldn’t be sitting here, pretending not to smell her hair, equal parts fond and amused by Una’s antics. It’s no laughing matter - even Boyce can attest - but Chris is in love with her, almost helpless with it. If she didn’t love him back, Boyce would eat his hat. It’s the only reason he doesn’t come out of his office to intervene. She’s terse because she was worried; she was worried because, in her own way, she cares. Boyce can understand the impulse. It’s a wonder she hasn’t throttled either of them yet, or Spock. Lord knows if anyone could knock out a Vulcan with sheer force of will, it would be Una.

It’s another ten minutes before she’s done. Despite herself, she’s careful with Chris. She tilts his arms, first one, then the other, until they’re under the light, so she can be sure she’s caught every remaining scratch. There’s a bruise under his chin; she skims her thumb over it almost absently. The gesture is painfully telling. Boyce looks away, but hears her take a step back.

“Thank you,” Chris says softly.

“Captain,” she replies, turning on her heel and exiting with long, purposeful strides. When Boyce looks up again, Chris looks tired, shoulders low.

“You’d better get in here,” Boyce says, holding up his bottle of brandy. “Doctor’s orders.”

The smile that glances across Chris’ face is rueful but amused nonetheless. He hops down from the bed and makes his way over to Boyce’s office slowly, the bruises across his torso no doubt impeding his progress.

“Here,” Boyce says, offering him a glass, "this should take the edge off.”

“Think it’d work on Una?” Chris asks, taking the glass and lifting it for a taste.

“With the right dose,” says Boyce. He nods at the chair opposite his desk and waits until Chris is settled. “Don’t take my hospitality as a sign that I don’t agree with her,” he says.

“Then why the special treatment?” 

Boyce shrugs. “Nothing I can do to you that she won’t do better and faster,” he says.

Chris laughs, then winces. 

“Less laughing, more drinking,” Boyce instructs, reaching over the desk to top up both tumblers. “And don’t even think about trying to report for duty.” He looks Chris in the eye. “I’ll set that First Officer of yours on you, don’t think I won’t.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Damn straight.” He nods at the glass in Chris’ hand. “Drink up.”

**END.**


End file.
